


The 100: Blood Bound, Part 1

by LinneaLund



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:03:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinneaLund/pseuds/LinneaLund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clarke Griffin walks away from Camp Jaha, her only thought is escape: from the things she’s done and the guilt she feels. Traveling the decimated remains of North America, she finds herself under the protection of the Highlanders, a reclusive grounder tribe who have little to do with the outside world. Joining them in the remote northern reaches of the Rocky Mountains, Clarke starts afresh… but leaving her past behind isn’t as easy as she’d hoped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sample of The 100: Blood Bound, not the entire work. (But Part 1 works on its own as a complete story.) Yes, the rest is written. No, I can't post it all here. 
> 
> Happy reading! LL :)

**Part 1: Scars of Adulthood**

**Prologue: May We Meet Again**

Strangely enough, the first days after Clarke left were the easiest.

Bellamy stood for a long time after she walked away from Camp Jaha. He watched her cross the meadow, retracing their earlier steps, her shape growing smaller step by step. _She’ll turn around,_ he thought. _She’ll come back._ She reached the thicket at edge of the forest and her figure grew dim as she entered the trees. Shadows striped her blonde hair with black. _She won’t leave,_ he thought. _She’ll turn back. She’ll-_ And then - between one heartbeat and the next - Clarke was there, and then…

 _Gone_.

Bellamy stared at the spot for a long moment. If he ran now, he could catch up with her. But what would he say if he did? They’d shared their goodbyes.

“She’ll be back,” he muttered. “Clarke just needs time. We all do.”

The handful of words seemed small change for all that had passed in the last weeks and months, but his voice trickled off, choked by pain. He wanted to say something meaningful, like the words which filled his mind: _Come back to me, Clarke! Come back and tell me we’ll be okay. Come back! There’s no point to this if you’re gone!_

He stared at the spot. Minutes passed, then an hour. Too tired to move, Bellamy slumped to the ground, his mind brimming with the endless moments that had led him to this day. They’d won the war, but he’d lost her. The thought rang in time to his heart, drumming in his ears. The wind blew, and the grasses swayed, and the sun moved across an indifferent sky. It beat down on his tangled hair, darkening his freckled skin and taunting him with thirst. He sat outside the gates of Camp Jaha, drunk on grief and loss, surprised somehow he could feel this at all after so much death. He’d killed Mountain Men beyond counting. Children, even. Now he had nothing but time to bear it.

Bellamy’s mind sifted through all the hours which he should have used for something worthwhile, times he could have stayed at Clarke’s side, but hadn’t. Times she’d been near, but he hadn’t gone to her. Time he’d seen her pass by, but hadn’t. _Time_. Always it came down to that.

Now it was gone.

Thirst belatedly pulled Bellamy from his stupor. He stumbled away from the meadow and into the trees where he drank straight from the creek. He collapsed next to the bank, unwilling to move. Night came and Bellamy’s mind filled with thoughts of death. Too many lives weighed on him now, too many hard choices to ignore. _You don’t have to do this alone._ Had he meant that for her, or for him?

Octavia appeared from the shadows.

“Come inside,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

Bellamy wouldn’t answer. _He couldn’t._

“Bellamy. Come inside, please! The forest isn’t safe this time of night. What if reapers come?”

He closed his eyes.

_Let them come._

In the end, Lincoln and Octavia built a fire, then stood guard over him while the forest filled with the sound of night-calling creatures. Bellamy’s mind grew louder than the roar that filled his ears: _Come back, please, Clarke. Oh god, come back. Please! I can’t face them without you._

Dawn arrived.

Another day passed.

Night again.

Octavia brought food and Bellamy ate without tasting. Lincoln sat at his side, unspeaking. Abby visited, looking as upset as he felt. She fussed over him as his mother had once done when he was ill, checking his vitals and whispering words he no longer wished to hear. He caught Clarke’s name twice, but closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to speak of her.

“He won’t talk. Won’t eat,” Bellamy heard Octavia say. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Mental trauma can have physical effects,” she said. “Bellamy needs time. No one knows what he saw inside Mount Weather.”

 _No one but Clarke,_ he thought, but didn’t say.

“Bellamy? Grab my arm. I’ll help you inside,” Octavia pleaded. “C’mon. It’s cold out here. You need to come in.”

He turned away, staring the direction Clarke’s feet had followed. He knew the exact point at which she’d disappeared into the undergrowth. _I could still find her if I left now..._

Night came again.

Octavia raged at Bellamy, daring him to attack her, but he barely heard her taunts. “Leave him be,” Lincoln said grimly. “He needs to rest.” He pulled Octavia away from her brother’s side, leaving him alone by the fire.

The decision to go wasn’t conscious. One moment Bellamy was slumped next to the embers, the next he was on his feet, staggering through the darkened woods. He moved like a drunkard. In front of him, the blue smudge of the mountains beckoned. Behind him, Camp Jaha shone with twinkling lights, the faint sounds of laughter echoing forward. It surprised him to find the settlement so unchanged, so happy. The world had come unhinged; surely _everyone_ should know that. But the foot-beaten path where he and Clarke had returned from their war was utterly and exactly the same.

Bellamy brought no belongings. (Octavia would stop him if he tried.) Instead, his feet picked up pace, moving toward that distant spot where Clarke had disappeared into the forest. The night wind rushed through leafless trees, obscuring the sound of his passage and leaving him shaking. With war on everyone’s mind, they’d forgotten a truth he could feel with every inch of his shivering body: winter was on its way.

“Hold on, Clarke,” Bellamy said through chattering teeth. “I’m coming.”

**Chapter 1: Winter’s Child**

The girl-child was born late in the winter of the great snows.

The baby’s mother, Elba den Ruen, elderly almost beyond the moons of childbearing and wife to the chieftain of the Highland People, Haaken noch Laird, looked down at the newborn with pride and gratitude for an easy birth.

The spirit world, it seemed, had smiled on them.

Elba and the child lay together, deep in the furthest recesses of their winter dwelling, a cave high in the northern mountains. The interior of the cavern, temperate at all times, had been warmed far beyond the usual needs of survival. Extra fires banked the entrance and fire-heated stones lined the birthing bed, warming it under the heavy weight of hides and bedding.

Nothing was too frivolous a comfort for a child of the _heda_. This little girl, with her angry pink-cheeked howl and tiny thrusting fists, was the youngest of their five surviving children, the four previous, all boys. Her birth was unexpected after so many years of childlessness, but welcomed nonetheless. When it came to naming her, however, her otherwise like-minded parents disagreed.

In the fashion of their two tribes, the new baby was to be named to mark her birth. Elba was a woman of the Water People, and though she’d lived her adult life far away from the ebb and flow of the tide, she still practised their ways. She wanted to name the child for the season. Haaken, on the other hand, wished to mark the great events of the year which had occurred near the child’s conception, nine months prior. That spring the skies had resounded with thunderclaps that had echoed the length of the valley, sending the animals running for shelter despite the clear sky. To the people’s astonishment, great mythical thunder-birds had come down from the clouds carrying strangely-dressed Sky People in their bellies. In all of the stories passed down from elder to child, stretching back to the Great War that had destroyed the lands and blackened the sky, the Tribes of Man had never seen such a thing.

The _Skaikru_ ’s arrival had been a dark omen.

War came in the months that followed. The Highland People were the most distant of the Tribes of Man, but the war trumpet hailed grounders far and wide. The commander of the Woods Clan - a fierce warrior by the name of Lexa - sent word to Haaken that she’d founded an alliance with the Sky People. They were joined in their hatred of the Mountain Men, and readying to attack Mount Weather. Preparing for winter, Haaken could not join the fight, but he outfitted a battalion of his best hunters and sent them off with fanfare and promises of glory.

Only a handful returned.

Lexa’s war had been won, but at a heavy cost… yet another reason the child’s birth was a blessing. The Highlander’s survival was precarious. Many hands were needed for hunting and gathering, and this child would help ensure their survival.

Tonight, in the close quarters of the cave, Elba listened to Haaken’s reasoning to name the baby after the great birds of the skies.

“I’ll have nothing to do with naming our child after a cataclysmic event,” she said, voice sharp despite her exhaustion. “What could be worse than to name her after the _Skaikru_?”

“Worse,” Haaken snorted. “How so?”

“They’re mewling newborns no matter how many fine guns they carry! The _Skaikru_ are worse than children at tracking. From what the stories say, they couldn’t even tell they were being feinted and followed themselves!”

“Stories. Bah!”

“They’re fools at best,” she insisted, “and probably worse. They started the war with the _Trigedakru._ ”

“But Lexa’s alliance-”

“Came _after_ they failed,” Elba said. “And that alliance broke soon after. _Skaikru_ are weak and rash.” She shook her head. “I don’t trust them. And I won’t have this child named for their arrival.”

Haaken scowled at the low-burning fire. “Perhaps…”

“Better not to name a child after peoples you know nothing of,” she said, watching her husband’s mouth twitch in frustration. “She might feel the urge to find her way to join them if we did. Leave us all behind.”

And that, of course, decided it. This girl child, only hours old, already held her father’s heart in her tiny hand.

Minutes later, the parents prepared for her naming. The baby’s eyes were the slate grey of newborns, wide and somehow wiser than they ought to be for her age. The child watched them, silent, as they uncovered her. Elba hurried, for the cave was still cooler than the hides had been. She raised her hand above the baby, brushing her fingers across the girl’s scalp for wisdom, then her chest for love, her lips for speech, her abdomen for birthing, and finally her feet for perseverance.

Haaken followed her pattern, marking some of the same spots, though adding others too: gesturing over each of her arms for skill in hunting, her legs for great speed, and her hands for agility too. They weren’t necessary skills for a girl per say, but he’d made the same marks on his sons and they seemed fitting for this longed-for daughter. The marking complete, the child was rewrapped with quick efficiency, and her parents tipped their heads, praying fervently for the name to protect her from all darkness. There were risks no matter how many offerings one made to the spirit world; they’d buried two children in their time together and knew this to be true.

“Welcome to the Highland People, girl-child,” Elba whispered.

“You are a daughter of the chieftain and wise woman,” Haaken continued, reaching out to squeeze his wife’s hand. “May this name bring you good fortune and gifts beyond counting.”

“And may you bring pride to the people where you make your home,” Elba added, thinking of her choice to leave her the Water People and join her husband; a decision based on love and not alliances. “We name you An yad’en Khol: _The One who Comes with the Snows._ ”

Haaken chuckled, and the baby’s wide eyes sought out his voice. “A good name,” he said, settling the argument once and for all. “Very, very good.”

He leaned forward and placed a kiss first on his wife’s forehead, and then down on the child. For a second he paused, closing his eyes and focusing on the baby who’d gone still beneath their ministrations.

“Welcome back into the world of man, little one. _Yu keryon ste sonraun.”_

By the summer when the child learned to walk in the long grasses of the valley, her name had been shortened down by her father, who had grown to love her as no other of his children. Nowadays she was known simply as _Anya_.The name seemed fitting.

: : : : : : : : : :

In all her dreams, Anya was fighting.

While she dozed in her nest of hide - slung across her mother’s back or deep in the caves of winter - her young mind danced with visions of spears and death. In many of these, a woman’s face appeared. She was blonder than any of the Highlander’s Anya knew, strong-willed and fierce. A _heda_ in the making. Sometimes Anya fought her. Other times they battled side by side. Once, Anya died, staring into her blue eyes. The repeating dream hinted at a connection only the tribe’s shaman could understand. “ _Nodo taim_ ,” he muttered. “ _Nodo sonraun_.” Stranger than this explanation was Anya’s certainty that this dream woman had come from the sky.

There was little time to consider such whimsy. As a child of the Highland People, Anya spent her hours like all her clan: gathering berries, scraping hides, filling the days with the endless things that made the difference between survival and death in the long, bitter-cold winters. Anya’s mother, Elba, was beautiful in the hardened way of mountain flowers. Short-statured and happy by nature, she ruled her village, much as her husband ruled his hunters. Her face was vulpine, with high cheekbones that Anya shared. Her hair, greying at the temples, was pulled back into a long, nut-brown braid. Elba had a wide grin, but she was strong-willed, a leader in the tribe and a force unto herself.

But if Anya suited her mother’s temperament, it was her father’s features she shared. She was tawny-skinned and dark of hair as her father had been in his youth, though Haaken’s was now coursed with white like the snow that begat his daughter’s name. He was late in years at the time of his daughter’s birth, with a wide-barrelled chest and barking laugh. Despite his age, he was still the most powerful man in the lands which stretched from the sharpened peaks of the mountains in the West to the curved sides of basin which held the Great Plains and the desert Waste, and far beyond that to the forested foothills outside Ton DC. His years of states-craft, negotiating with the warring grounder tribes, made him a man not to be crossed, but this tiny girl-child, born late in his life, was his comfort. Haaken doted on his daughter: teaching her to hunt and track, allowing her to explore unhindered and encouraging her wildness when other fathers would have beaten it out of her. The girl was allowed to grow free and untamed like the fireweed that climbed the sides of the mountain slopes.

Beyond his willfulness, Anya’s face reflected her father’s laughing smile and mischievous green-gold eyes, though none of his other children did. She shared his quick wit and an even quicker mind, teasing her elder brothers mercilessly. Two teenaged boys, Lind’ell and Arwed, were her nearest siblings. The two older brothers, Reiden and Dahs, had joined other tribes seasons before Anya’s birth and were both fathers to their own children now. All of her brothers were adults in Anya’s eyes, bearing their marks of adulthood - scars inscribed onto their skin - marking their spirit animals. Her brothers nearest in age - already past puberty - still remained in the village, though they were nearing adulthood. With her hot temper and stubborn nature, the little girl was a blessing to her parents, but a curse to her brothers.

“Who can manage a girl like that?” Arwed teased. “She’s a child going on chieftain!”

But their father laughed at them, urging them to practise their bows and spears. It was coming time for them to move away in any case. They were no longer children, but Anya was.

: : : : : : : : : :

Clarke wasn’t actually _looking_ for death when it finally found her. If she _had_ been looking for it, she decided afterward, she would have chosen a higher cliff. A quicker death. No, this particular day, it had been an accident born of poor judgement and bad luck. She’d simply chosen a foothold without checking it for strength.

And it had given way.

She had a long, sickening moment of scrambling as she fell. The skin flayed off her cheeks and forearms as she clambered futilely for handholds, seconds before the impossibly hard impact. Clarke’s right leg came down first. There was a sharp pop - sounding, she thought, like breaking firewood - and her tibia snapped under the pressure. It slowed her enough that when her pelvis hit and she rolled instinctively to protect herself, nothing else shattered. In seconds she lay on the ground on her back, staring up at the bright blue ceiling of the sky, the cliff a black wall next to her.

And then Clarke had time to consider how impossibly _bad_ her situation was.

She was in the mountains, alone and injured beyond healing. She closed her eyes, trying to count back the number of days since she’d last seen an inhabitant of the Ark. There’d been a settlement near the mouth of the river, four days ago. Clarke hadn’t stopped in to talk to the couple working the fields. That was still too hard.Even now, more than three and a half years after the final stand at Mount Weather, she didn’t know how to explain her self-imposed exile to the people she’d saved. The only person who might have understood was Bellamy, and she hadn’t seen him since that long-ago day.

There was no way they’d know she was here. No one to find her. The realization sank like a weight onto her chest.

She was going to die.

For a moment Clarke allowed the sheer horror of it to weigh her down, her breathing coming in hitched gasps. The best she could hope for was a quick death, for exposure to take her before anything else. Having lived alone, she knew nights were cold in the mountains, and she was clad in tatters of worn clothing. Her pack lay a few steps away, but it might as well have been back on the Ark. There was no way she could reach it, not like this.

Clarke’s breaths increased in tempo as the alternatives came to mind. The worst would be a slow and agonizing end. Dying here, tethered to the spot by her own destroyed leg, while animals tormented her. She’d seen it more than once. The image of bloody guts spread across an expanse of snow flashed luridly to mind. _Wolves._ She thrashed in vain, but the pain in her leg left her seeing black spots and she soon fell still.

In her years of wandering she’d seen packs of wild dogs take down the larger beasts of the forest: hamstringing them so they couldn’t run, then tearing out their innards and eating them alive. A choked gasp ripped from her chest. The forests were alive with animals, and although they tended to avoid humans when they could, the injured didn’t last long. The ragged sounds in her throat changed in tone. A manic edge sharpened her panting. Her coughs grew jittery with panic and then into something else entirely. The valley echoed with the sound of laughter as the morbid absurdity of the situation settled in.

“My god, Bellamy,” Clarke coughed. “If you could only see me now.” She smiled through her tears, remembering him standing on the path outside the gates of Camp Jaha, an image she’d spent years trying to forget. “I’ve really screwed up this time.”

And despite the white-hot pain of her broken leg and her abraded skin (or perhaps because of it), she could almost hear his answer: _“You can't afford to be weak. Down here, weakness is death, fear is death.”_ Hadn’t that been the advice he’d given to Charlotte? Today, his words were for her.

With the sharpened quality of pain and grief, Clarke’s mind filled with the brightness of memory. She could see Bellamy’s tanned skin and white smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he laughed. Barring the hug when they’d reunited, there were only a handful of times when they’d even touched, but each gesture of them was still engraved on Clarke’s soul. She took those memories out now, moving through them like a miser counting coins. Her thoughts echoed with his voice, throat aching. For all she’d lost, never seeing him again would be one of the hardest.

Around her, the day slowly passed, and sounds of branches breaking in the forest nearby warned her of something large approaching. Clarke didn’t fight it or scream. Instead, she closed his eyes and waited for it to arrive.

_May we meet again, Bellamy._

She hadn’t turned around to wave when she’d walked away from him that day outside Camp Jaha. Now she wished she had.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Omens and Prophecy**

“That bird,” Anya said, pointing to the branch. “I dreamed it.”

The women of the tribe were spread throughout the forest, gathering nuts and checking the snares for game. Anya, barely three winters old, had come to help as all children were expected to. She was searching for the tart, blue berries found half-hidden under the bloom of foliage on the ground, trained since infancy to find the bounty in the forest’s shadowed places.

“The bird?” her mother answered absently, reaching out to pull off a handful of dry moss from a nearby branch.

It was useful for tinder with damp wood and to stop bleeding. As wise woman for the Highland People, Elba constantly refilled her supplies. She didn’t stop her task as she spoke to her daughter, just tucked it into her bag and stepped over to the next tree.

“Yes, _Nomon_!” Anya answered, setting her basket on the ground, and tugging at her mother’s arm, pointing for her to look. “That bird, that bird there!”

Her mother glanced down at her daughter, seeming only then to notice her excitement. Pushing the last bit of moss into the sack, she glanced up to the trees where a number of birds danced and chirped in the treetops. There were many. Anya waited while her mother watched.

“Which one?” Elba asked.

“That one there. Can’t you see it?”

Her mother stepped to the side, brown eyes on the branches. The happy sounds of birdsong filling the space. “But _which of them_ , An yad’en Khol?” her mother asked, stretching her name out formally. “Tell me the shape of it. The colours.”

Anya frowned, not liking the use of that _other name_. It was only hers when she was in trouble or not listening. But her mother was waiting, so she tried to put her flitting thoughts into words. Biting her lower lip, she stared upward, willing herself into the trees the way she did in her spare time. “The black and white one,” she began, her tiny voice solemn. “It’s jumping up and down. Watching us.”

“Which one?”

Anya wished she could just paint it, the way Olgen ach Sendt did on the walls of caves. She wonderedwhat it would be like to blend the colours to show what she meant, but only the wise women or elders were allowed to do that. She’d watched him work on the murals last summer, a great landscape of powerful magic. In it stood sprawling cities, the likes of which Anya had never seen. Above them floated mushroom-like clouds, strangely-shaped thunderbirds birds rising into the sky. On the other walls were images of the landmarks that delineated the borders of the Tribes of Man, and in the darkest part of the cavern loomed a single mountain, painted in black. It seemed to ripple with shadow. “Where the bad men are…” Anya had whispered. She’d borrowed Olgen’s pigments to add a single red handprint overtop the mountain. “Red for our blood.” Seeing it, the old man had yelled at Anya. (He’d yelled, but not removed it.)

In the forest, the bird’s chirping drew Anya’s attention. “The one whose wings turn blue when they fly,” she said, frowning.

Elba twisted back to look at her daughter. She slid to the ground like a woman half her age. “What did you say?”

Her mother’s eyes were abruptly fierce, pressing Anya to answer, and she felt for a moment she might cry. This was the side of _Nomon_ she didn’t like. The forceful one that brooked no patience for fools. While her mother rarely raised her hand in anger to her, Anya somehow _knew_ what it would be like if she did. She had nightmares of strangely-dressed peoplesome nights… men and women who _always_ looked at her like this. People who wanted to hurt her.

“Th-the black and white-”

“No,” her mother snapped. “The other part, child.”

Her mother’s brown eyes were fierce. Anya glanced upward again, watching the bird jumping from branch to branch, its laughing call echoing in the quiet woods. Without losing sight of the bird Anya answered: “The one on the branch. Its wings are shiny like… water.”

Her mother didn’t respond and for a time Anya was caught up in watching the bird as it flew lower and lower until it finally perched a few branches above her mother’s head. It tipped its head, the rainbow sheen on its black feathers brilliant for just a second. And then, with a flutter of wings, it burst into flight, leaving them behind. Anya sighed, feeling the tug of disappointment.

She dropped her eyes back down from the foliage above to find her mother watching. Elba’s eyebrows were pulled together the way they did when the water skins spoiled, or the hides didn’t dry properly in damp weather, but she was smiling too. The combination of expressions unnerved Anya.

“You’re right,” her mother said. “What you’re seeing is the aura of the bird… but you shouldn’t say it aloud, Anya. You see it because it’s your spirit animal, but most people can’t.”

The little girl frowned, shifting from foot to foot. _How could someone not see the blue?_ It seemed so obvious.

Her mother smiled, and slowly stood, tipping forward slightly to regain her balance. “If you went and asked _Nontu_ ,” her mother said, almost as if speaking to herself, “what colour do you think he’d see in that bird?”

“I dunno,” Anya mumbled, following her mother as she headed down the slope toward camp.

Her mother laughed tiredly. “He’d only see the black and the white, not the hidden colours in between.” The words sounded almost wistful.

Anya grinned. She took her mother’s hand and they walked in the dappled sunshine together. “ _Nontu_ would see the blue.”

“You think so, do you?”

“ _Nontu_ can do anything.”

Her mother squeezed her hand the way she did when the dreams came and Anya was scared of the dark and the dream people who waited for her, ready to drain her blood.

“No, he wouldn’t, Anya,” she said just as the first tan smudges of summer tents appeared in the trees. “I know because I’ve asked him before.”

: : : : : : : : : :

Eyes closed, Clarke waited for death at the bottom of the cliff, her body wracked with pain. _Please be quick. Please be quick. Please be-_

A child’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

_“Heya?”_

Shocked, her lashes fluttered open to discover a little girl, no more than three, crouched at her side. The girl wrinkled her nose and grinned, looking, for all the world, as if she was about to tease Clarke about something. Her strange greenish-gold eyes reminded her of someone, but who? The answer appeared as a memory: Anya, the grounder warrior who’d died at Clarke’s side. Clarke hadn’t thought of her in years and yet there was some indefinable quality the babyish face held which captured the warrior perfectly.

The child leaned closer. _“Ge smak daun?”_

Something about the melodious stream of words reminded Clarke of Spanish, a language spoken by a few elderly residents on the Ark, but the little girl’s phrases flowed too fast for her to follow.

Clarke gestured down at her leg. “I-I’m hurt. Please get someone.”

_“Ge smak daun,”_ the girl said gravely, _“gyon op nodotaim.”_

Clarke had never mastered Trigedasleng, but she guessed the gist of the child’s words. Clarke needed to get up.

“That’s the problem. I can’t,” Clarke said, struggling and falling back. “Leg’s broken. See?” She pointed at the strange twist in her calf. “Broken. Hurt bad.”

This time, the girl followed her pointed finger and her eyes widened in concern. She shrugged off her jacket and placed it over Clarke.

“Thank you,” Clarke said.

_“Oso fis op. Noworei.””_

The child turned back to the trees and pursed her lips, sending out a trilling series of high-pitched whistles. Minutes later, the rest of the hunting group arrived and the men and women nervously approached her. The leader was a dark-haired heavy-set man, with green eyes like the girl. He dropped to a crouch beside Clarke, and shook his head.

_“Yu gonplei ste odon,”_ he growled.

Clarke shivered. She knew that phrase.

_“Yu souda fis em op?”_ the little girl asked.

The man grumbled, but didn’t answer. Clearly their leader, there wasn’t going to be help for Clarke without his say. After a moment, the little girl stepped forward and placed her hand on the man’s arm. He turned to her as she began to chatter, the phrases rising like the sound of birdsong.

_“Dison Skaikru smak daun, Nontu. Em ste kwelen.”_ The child couldn’t be more than three, but the man’s face transformed into a look of patience as she fumbled through her speech. _“Yumi Nomon fis em op?”_

The chief gave Clarke one final look. He scowled.

_“Beja?”_ the girl pleaded.

The man sighed. For a long time he didn’t speak.

_“Beja, Nontu?”_

The man shook his head and stood. He reached down and lifted the girl into his arms. _“Sha, yongon,”_ he said, his eyes on the girl, not Clarke. _“Yu Nomon na fis em op.”_

The girl’s face broke into a wide grin. _“Mochof, Nontu. Mochof!”_

With a nod, the man shouted orders to the others and they moved Clarke to a hastily-erected travois. Whoever the little girl was, Clarke owed her her life.

: : : : : : : : : :

Clarke lost consciousness somewhere along the travels back to the settlement in the highland mountains, so she never had a chance to ask the child why she’d decided to help. In the end, the girl’s reasons didn’t matter. The Highland People had lost many of their tribe during the war with the Mountain Men, and every able-bodied adult was needed… even strangers. Unable to leave as she might have done years before, she found herself settled in the heart of a remote grounder community.

In the weeks and months that followed, Clarke’s body recovered, her leg splinted and set, her wounds mended, and body healed. She could walk without a limp, testament to the skills of the wise woman - the child’s mother, Elba. She also perfected the grounder tongue, and spoke Trigedasleng with only the slightest Gonasleng accent. She learned the ten different names for snow, describing its density and temperature. She learned to ride the rugged mountain horses, and earn her keep in this strange new world. She learned the way to throw a spear on foot and from the saddle. She learned to let her mind go silent.

And in this new place, Clarke’s bone-weary grief finally tempered. No longer on the move, the emotions she’d spent so many years trying to hide from worked their way under her skin, becoming part of who Clarke was. These people didn’t know her story, didn’t judge her. They didn’t ask about the war or force her to think of what she’d done. And if she sank into despair when the anniversary of the destruction of Mount Weather rolled past at the end of the summer, the Highlanders never commented.

And so, for the most part, Clarke was content. Not happy, of course, because as much as she moved through day after day, breathing and eating and doing it all over again, the memory of those she’d left behind was always with her. _Bellamy, Octavia, her mother, and so many others…_ And in the dark winter nights when Clarke was overwhelmed by memories, the wanderlust rose in her again and she considered moving away once more.

This time, the snow stopped her.

Despite her friendship with Lincoln and the one-time alliance with Lexa’s Woods Clan, Clarke discovered she knew very little about the grounders. For one, the various tribes had slight variations of Trigedasleng, their unique cultures spread across the continent. These tribes also had a verbal history that stretched back to the nuclear war. They revered the dead, believed in rebirth and cycles of life. Life hadn’t stopped on Earth. It had changed.

Here today, lying on a sunny patch near a creek high in the mountains, Clarke wondered at the naiveté of the Ark’s inhabitants, returning to Earth with no sense of how to survive. The last few years of living off the land had shown her many things, but one was foremost in her mind: the tribes of grounders that wandered the vast lands of Earth were the survivors, not the slowly-dwindling ranks from the Ark.

The rag-tag group of people that had made it back to the ground were floundering in their attempts to begin anew. Endangered by their ignorance, they struggled to learn the simplest tasks known by any child of the native peoples of the planet. The dreams of a fresh start had been replaced by the simple, pressing need to survive. They’d be lucky if any of them survived to old age.

Clarke glanced over at the little girl who’d saved her life. _An yad’en Khol_ was her name, but to Clarke and everyone else in the village she was simply Anya. The child ran forward, splashing into the ice-cold mountain stream, shrieking: “Come and get me!” Clarke smiled and closed her eyes.

The urge to walk away from this life was there, but today, at least, she would stay.

: : : : : : : : : :

Deformities were omens from the spirit world. Grounder children born with the mark were left to a death of exposure mere minutes after birth. Seeing three adults with the marks of Cain, was a sign of darkness, Haaken was certain of it.

He’d seen a deformed man last winter, out near the distant hunting grounds, but there were two of them here now and that meant _three_ in total. The spirit world was sending a warning and he’d have to ask Elba what it meant. As Haaken paused, watching them for reaction, the first of the two men stepped forward, his hand outstretched.

“Greetings, stranger,” he said in strangely-accented Trigedasleng.

Haaken was relieved to hear the man speak the language of the tribes. With his damaged face, he looked more like a Reaper than a kinsman.

“Greetings, stranger,” Haaken echoed.

“I am Kyril of the People of the Waste.”

With a grunt, Haaken released the man’s fist. “Haaken, Chief of the Highland People.”

This wasn’t the first time the Highland People had run into the People of the Waste, the barren desert that started at the edge of the Great Plains and stretched all the way to the elusive City of Light. But this was the first time they’d seen this omen: two men, one with the rippled skin of beast, the other with the misshapen mouth twisted into a sneer. Last year, Haaken and his group of hunters had seen a third: a one-handed man foraging for frozen berries on the side of a brush-covered slope. The skin of his face and hands had been pocked with deep red scars, his body skeletally lean and dressed in rags. Seeing him, the hunters had backed away, leaving him to his meagre meal.

The sight of more of omens had Haaken’s scalp crawling.

“We’re just passing through on the way to the Council of the Six Tribes,” the first stranger announced, lifting his damaged hands in a gesture of peace. “We won’t stay long on your lands.”

“The Council, you say?” It surprised Haaken, since the People of the Waste - like Reapers - had no voice there. “The mountain route seems a roundabout way to get there.”

“There are troubles in the Waste,” the second man announced. “We’ve been on the move for months.”

“What kind of troubles?”

“Attacks,” the first replied. “Crops burned. People killed.”

Haaken frowned. Land meant life. If the People of the Waste moved onto other tribes’ lands, there’d be conflict.

In the small clearing, the rest of the tribesmen stepped out of the cover of the distant trees to watch the strangers. From behind him, Haaken heard his youngest child clear her throat to speak. “I’ve dreamed of these men, _Nontu_ ,” she hissed, her voice carrying forward on the wind. “Don’t trust them. They’re bad.”

At the sound of her words, the two men across from him swivelled as one, their faces twisting into sneers.Haaken’s hand dropped to the knife on his belt. “That girl there,” the first growled. “What did she say about us?”

_“Maunon!”_ Anya shouted. “They’re killers!”

: : : : : : : : : :

The Highland People were en route to the Council of the Six Tribes, when Clarke decided it was time to move on. She’d been living with them for nearly a year. She’d passed their rites of womanhood and been accepted into their tribe. She’d even been offered status high enough to take a husband, but had declined. Instead, she lived day to day.

Clarke was known and accepted here; her otherness as a Sky Person almost completely forgotten. In many ways, this tribe was exactly what she needed if she wanted to survive… A place where she’d never been known. Her decisions during the time of war meant nothing to them. Even little Anya with her too-knowing eyes and strange questions about Clarke’s life before felt safe. In the time she’d lived with the Highland People, she’d come to feel almost at home.

_Almost…_

If she’d been intending to settle down anywhere, this was where she’d choose - surrounded by mountain peaks and protected from what she’d done - but the voice inside her was calling again. _Time to move. To forget._

In the last days, her decision had been made. The dreams were growing worse, not better, and she knew the only way to deal with it was to do what she’d done before. _To roam._ The Highlanders were heading to the Council by way of the low pass between the mountains, the same area where she’d broken her right leg so many years before. It had been the final reaches of her travels. She would follow the group to the vast valley where the Council of the Six Tribes would take place, then move on from there, continuing her travels as she picked up the thread at the very spot she’d left it.

Perhaps death would find her again. Clarke didn’t care.

Up ahead of her came the sound of chatter and the warm odour of campfire greeted them. Clarke frowned, glancing up as words made their way back to her ears.

_“It’s a dark omen. Two of them… Crops burned. People killed…Maunon! They’re killers!”_

Shouldering her pack and moving through the now-stalled group, Clarke found herself looking into the pock-marked, but still-familiar face, of Carl Emerson, one of Mount Weather’s guards. The skin of his face was damaged, one side of his mouth curled into a macabre sneer, and his body lean to the point of sickly, but his greasy hair and glittering blue eyes were exactly the same. He spoke Trigedasleng, presenting himself as a grounder, rather than the Mountain Man he was. Shaking, Clarke withdrew back into the crowd, terrified she’d be recognized.

She needn’t have worried. In seconds, something changed. Haaken shouted orders and the group withdrew. Clarke stumbled away, her hands ice-cold despite the heat of the day. When the panicked withdrawal had slowed enough she could catch her breath, she picked her way forward, reaching Haaken’s side. He rode with his daughter in the saddle ahead of him.

“…don’t ever do that again, you hear?” he growled. “Strangers can be dangerous.”

“I won’t, _Nontu_ , but I knew him.”

“How, Anya? You’ve never seen him before.”

“From my dreams,” she said. “He’s one of the bad men.”

“But dreams cannot-”

Clarke cleared her voice and Haaken jerked like he’d been shocked.

“I’m sorry, _heda_ ,” Clarke said. “But I need to talk a moment.”

He frowned, his arms wrapping tighter around his daughter. “All right then. What is it?”

“Those men back there. I… I recognized one of them.”

“I told you, _Nontu_!” Anya chortled. “I knew!”

Haaken shushed his daughter, then nodded to Clarke. “Go on.”

“I don’t know who the second one was, but that first man - the one with the twisted mouth and pocked skin - he’s a Mountain Man. His name is not Kyril; it’s Carl.”

Haaken’s expression darkened. “How could you know that?”

Clarke took a slow breath. It had been a secret for so long she had to force the words past her lips. “I was there during the war with the Mountain Men. I was inside Mount Weather. I saw Carl Emerson there. I remember him. He’s… he’s one of them.”

Haaken didn’t speak for a long moment. His expression flitted over Clarke as if measuring her against some ruler. “And the other man he was with? Was he a Wastelander or a Reaper?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “When they spoke, it was English. I think he’s a Mountain Man too.”

“I thought they’d all died.”

Clarke let out an angry laugh. “I thought so too, but it seems some of them might’ve survived after all.” She shook her head, remembering the torturous bone marrow transplants. Though they were still alive, Carl’s damaged skin showed the transfusion hadn’t been completely successful. How many _other_ people from Mount Weather had escaped death? No one had checked the rooms before they’d walked away. There hadn’t seemed any need. Now she wished she had.

_Fucked up again._

“We should go back and stop him,” Clarke said in a low voice. “He’s dangerous, _heda_.” She glared over her shoulder. “I can do it alone if you want.”

Haaken frowned. “I can’t let you kill him, Clarke. No matter who he is. There’s a truce declared for the Council of the Six Tribes. You’ll break it if you do.”

“But they’re killers.”

“True, but attacking them will mean punishment for you - banishment or maybe death - no matter the reason behind it.” He sighed, as if the thought bothered him. “That’s the only way a truce works. Even the Warriors from the south put away their spears for the Council.”

“Of course. I didn’t realize…”

Haaken leaned forward, eyes glittering. His voice, when he spoke, was low. “But if you can wait until _after_ the Tribal Council, when the clans have returned home and the snow is beginning to fly, we can _talk_ about this again, Clarke.”

The way he said the word ‘talk’ had the hairs on Clarke’s arms rising.

“Talk…?”

Haaken frowned, glancing down at his daughter, playing the horse’s mane, and then back at Clarke. He dropped his voice. “You killed to protect the grounders who were trapped in Mount Weather.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

“Yes, I did.”

Haaken nodded, lips pressing into a hard line. “Then when the snow flies and the truce is lifted, I will help you track those men down and kill them.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I do,” Haaken said grimly. “But now isn’t the time. Thank you for telling me who he was.” He cleared his throat and for a second Clarke wondered if he was going to tell her to leave. That’s what others might do. Instead, he reached to his daughter and lifted her down to Clarke’s arms. “Now, I must talk to Elba about this. Here, take Anya with you. She’s as headstrong as a mountain goat, and needs minding.”

“Okay?”

Haaken nudged his horse with his knees and disappeared into the trees. “Be good!” he shouted back over his shoulder, to one or both, Clarke didn’t know. “We’ll talk again later.”

Anya giggled as she grabbed Clarke’s hand, swinging back and forth. Again, that sense of _knowing_ rose in Clarke’s chest. She wondered if she’d ever be able to let those memories go.

“You remember the mountain too!” Anya laughed, a wide grin brightening her face.

Clarke nodded.

“Yes, Anya. I remember.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Scars of Passage**

The Council of the Six Tribes was a grand event in the life of the people of the Lands of Man. It allowed for the passage of news, the trading of goods and people between tribes, and the settling of matters of the known world. It was equal parts legislative arena, sporting event and social gathering, and all members of the Tribes of Man were welcome. In fact, the only people who _weren’t_ present were the People of the Waste - too far away to travel - and the Sky People whose lack of language kept them apart.

In previous Councils, the talk had been of the arrival of these same Sky People, who’d been unknown and distrusted. The year they’d arrived, there’d been worries about the late arrival of spring that year, and the lean times expected for the following winter. Rations had been shared that summer, saving more people than would have been possible otherwise. But the Ark’s settlers, strangers to Earth, hadn’t been so lucky. Famine had cut their ranks significantly by the following summer. Over the last year and a half, news had begun to trickle in about a bloody change in leadership of the Warrior Clan, resulting in skirmishes all along the foothills that bordered the southern end of the mountain range. This event would be addressed during this year’s Tribal Council. These warriors - with their painted faces and beaded clothing - camped in the distance, and Clarke had been warned by several of the elder Highlanders not to spend too much time with them.

“They fill their ranks however they can,” Elba told her as they erected their tents.

“Meaning what?”

The wise-woman smirked. “Meaning you’re a pretty sight, and some might be happy enough to take you for a wife, willing or not.”

Clarke blanched. “Thanks for the warning.”

“The warrior’s way is a hard one,” Elba said. “They’re always travelling and fighting. Never staying in one place. Killing isn’t easy, you know. It’s every bit as hard a way of life as a gatherer. And all those ghosts of those you’ve killed…” She sighed heavily. “They never leave you, you know.”

Clarke frowned. She knew what it was like to be followed by ghosts, but didn’t know how to share her burden with the wise woman. She wasn’t at ease with the newfound knowledge of her life before joining the tribe. She could feel the knowing stares of the other hunters, could hear their whispers as she passed. Again, the urge to leave caught her in its pull. As soon as the Council started, she’d go.

“I have a brother in the Warrior Clan,” Elba said as she tied off a piece of rawhide with a square knot and pulled it tight. “He joined them.”

Clarke’s eyes widened. “He did? Why?”

“Dex always was a bit wild, and he went and foolishly married the daughter of the War-chief. He _had_ to join them then.” She shook her head, turning to look at Clarke, hands on hips. “Let me give you a piece of advice, Clarke, if you’re going to fall in love at the Council of the Six Tribes, at least try to choose someone who won’t launch an attack on your friends at the wedding dinner.”

It was Clarke’s turn to laugh. “I promise that’s _not_ going to be an issue.”

“Mmph,” Elba said, smirking. “That’s what all the _yongons_ say, but the gossips say different.” And with that both women had fallen into fits of laughter.

Today, as the different clans arrived at the wide valley, gossip was already flowing. Many of the grounders had seen the three men with bubbled skin: one with the missing hand, the other with the twisted mouth, the last who seemed whole, except for his scarred visage. All agreed their appearance was an omen and the tribes buzzed with anticipation of something dark to come.

As chief and wise-woman, Haaken and Elba attended the Council’s meetings, but as a hunter Clarke she was free to fill her time as she wished. The tents had been readied, the food cooking in the vast pits. With her chores complete, Clarke had the rest of the day to herself. It was time, she realized, to gather supplies for her next journey and it was with a pang of guilt that she moved from merchant to merchant, bartering for dry goods.

The last year had changed her. Clarke had done the Highland People’s rites of passage last summer, and she now bore the white scar of the two-faced stag she and Finn had once seen across her right shoulder, the markings inscribed on her pale skin _. “Two heads,”_ Olgen ach Sendt said as he drew the blade over her skin _. “One for the Skaikru, the tribe of your birth, the other for the Highland People, the tribe of your adult life.”_ Clarke’s skin crawled as she remembered the agony of the process. At the far side of the central market, a boy and two girls were waiting for the elders of the Horse People to finish their own markings. A woman incised a bird’s spread wings across a dark-haired girl’s shoulder with a flint knife. Clarke winced as she passed.

Welcomed into the ranks of the Highlanders, Clarke was able to enjoy the Council of the Six Tribes as a full participant. She walked through the milling mass of people, enjoying the spectacle of it all. Up ahead, the newly-arrived Water People were setting up tents, dogs and children running and dancing between them. These were Elba’s people and Clarke could see the similarities in their snubbed features and short stature.

There were tribes from all reaches of the known world here, but the Water People’s clothing set them apart from the others. Brightly-dyed, it reminded Clarke of the many flags that had once been displayed at the Ark’s Unity Day celebrations. Dressed as a Highlander, Clarke felt drab by comparison. She wore a closely cut tunic of finely-finished doe-skin, narrow pants that stretched across the curve of her hips and a pair of hardened leather boots that protected her feet from the rocky soil. Around her neck hung several necklaces of brightly coloured stones - gifts to celebrate her first kill as a Highlander - but her true glory was her hair: it was braided back from the sides of her face, the rest hanging unbound around her shoulders. In the bright mid-morning sunshine, it shimmered from pale gold to soft caramel.

Two little boys, perhaps seven and eight, came running past her, laughing and whipping each other with the stripped lengths of willow branches. She smiled and danced out of their way.

“Clarke!” a man’s voice called out to her. She glanced up to find a familiar face among the others.

“Aiden!” she laughed, walking over to the curly-haired man. “Good to see you.”

Aiden noch Richtell was no relation to her, but he was friends with Haaken’s son, Reiden, and she’d met him the winter before when he’d spent a season with the Highland People, learning to track. Reaching her side, Aiden pulled her into a quick bear hug before stepping back and giving her a once over.

“Well I see _you_ are decked out for the day,” he teased. “Should I be calling all the young men of the Water People to come out and check your wares?”

She rolled her eyes, pulling away from him to punch his shoulder. “I don’t need your help, thanks,” she said. “Besides, I’m not looking to marry a stinking fisherman.”

He reached out and tugged on a lock of her blonde hair. “Don’t kid yourself, Clarke. A fisherman bathes more than once a year.” He dropped his voice conspiratorially, “and that’s more than I can say for some of these other clansmen.”

She laughed, tipping her head back in mirth. When she opened her eyes, she was shocked to see someone standing beside the distant tents, staring openly at her. Aiden, still beside Clarke, had begun a story about getting lost during their travels across the Great Plains.

Clarke didn’t hear any of it.

Her attention had narrowed down to the figure near the tents. His height alone set him apart from the other Water People. She recognized his black curling hair, tanned skin and dark eyes at once.

_Bellamy?_

Sensing her distraction, Aiden followed her line of sight to where Bellamy waited in the distance. “Ah, yes! That’s my friend Bellamy there,” he said. “Met up with him on route to the Council.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke croaked. _Oh my god, no! Not now! I can’t do this!_

“Yes, Bellamy. He’s from the Sky People, like you.”

He hadn’t moved. Neither had she. They were far enough she couldn’t see his expression clearly, but she knew he was watching her. Clarke’s hand rose involuntarily in greeting. Near the tents, Bellamy echoed her movement. There was something growing in the empty space between them. A physical sense of connection after too long apart.

“Is he part of the Water People now?”

“Oh no,” Aiden chuckled. “Though I’m certain he’ll be asked if he wants to join us. He’s a lone _Skaikru_. A straggler.”

“Does he have a…a…” Clarke struggled with the grounder word ‘home’, settling for extended family. “A clan?”

“Not that he’s said. Bellamy’s on his own journey. Just staying with us ‘til he can refill supplies and move on. I told him Tribal Council’s the best place for news and trade. He’s been travelling with us the last few weeks, but he’s in a rush to move on before autumn.”

“What is he looking for?”

“Not what... _who_.”

Clarke opened her mouth to ask, but Aiden wasn’t finished. “Keeps to himself but he's a good man, and smart. He's travelled as far as anyone I've known. Claims he knows people who’ve been to the City of Light and back again.”

“Really?” she said in surprise, turning to look at Aiden, breaking the connection as she dropped Bellamy’s eyes. “I thought it was just a story.”

Aiden chuckled. “So did I, but he swears that friends of his have been there. Drew maps and everything.”

“That’s… amazing.” She remembered Bellamy’s ability to track and judge distances by the stars. The skill, it seemed, had served him well.

“Indeed! There're traders already vying for his advice on trade routes. They want him to come on their next expedition to the south.”

Clarke’s eyes widened. “And he’s agreed?”

“Oh no. Not yet, in any case. I can introduce you to him if you want, Clarke.” He raised a bushy eyebrow. “So someone _can_ catch your eye and keep it, huh? I’ll have to tell Lexa she was wrong about that.”

She rolled her eyes, and turned back around. “Lexa can think whatever the hell she wants.”

But Bellamy was already gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: A Step Forward**

Bellamy stumbled away from the tents in a daze. _Clarke’s here! I found her!_ After years of searching, both thoughts were insane, yet impossible to deny. She’d recognized him too; he’d seen it.

But Clarke wasn’t the same person he’d said goodbye to. The time apart had changed both of them. The differences were visible even from afar. Her body was leaner for one, and her hair so long it brushed her waist. More than that, she looked… _happy._ He’d watched her talk to Aiden, seen her laugh. This wasn’t the same, destroyed young woman he’d seen disappear into the trees. This was someone who’d rebuilt a life. The thought of it left him briefly furious.

_Abby believed her daughter was dead!_

Shell-shocked, Bellamy walked blindly, needing to put distance between them. He skirted the masses of people, ending up at the far side of the field where the games were being held. The sun had risen to its apex and footraces had begun. Sprinters bolted past amidst shouts of fans. Bellamy scowled, finding his way to the side and slumping down amongst the growing crowd, letting the noise and excitement wash over him like the tide, blending into the sea of humanity. Eventually his breathing slowed and his heartbeat returned to normal.

_Clarke’s alive,_ his mind repeated incredulously. _She made it. Octavia was right all along._ The last time Bellamy had visited Octavia and Lincoln’s homestead, brother and sister had fought. Octavia wanted Bellamy to settle down, to put an end to his wandering. Camp Jaha was the largest settlement of Ark’s inhabitants and the group lived in a state of tentative truce with Lexa’s Woods Clan. Bellamy had a place there if he wanted one.

_“But what if Clarke’s still out there?”_

_“Then she doesn’t want to be found,”_ Ocatavia’d said.

_“What if she needs our help?”_ Bellamy argued. _“What if some grounder has her trapped, like Lincoln did with you?”_

Octavia had shaken her head. _“Clarke’s smarter than anyone gives her credit for. If anyone could survive on their own, it’d be her.”_ She’d smiled sadly. _“You need to let her go, Bellamy. She doesn’t want to come back.”_

At the front of the field, another foot races began with a horn’s blare, distracting Bellamy. The crowd surged to their feet, shouting in excitement. He stayed where he was, obscured by those who surrounded him. It felt good to disappear into the forest of legs and boots. After years of searching for her, he no longer knew how he was supposed to feel.

_Clarke could have returned, but she hadn’t._

The thought was too much to deal with, and so he waited out the afternoon on a wave of mingled excitement and grief.

: : : : : : : : : :

The morning after she saw Bellamy, she’d packed her bags to leave, and then unpacked them again. Bellamy was here. She felt trapped by his presence. She knew she should be happy for he’d moved on and made a new life for himself, but seeing him again - alive and well - brought with it a wave of guilt. She wanted to know why he’d left Camp Jaha. She wanted to know the news of the others - Octavia, Raven, her mother and the rest. The uncertainty of her feelings for Bellamy hadn’t changed in the time apart, and so he was ensnared by them: unable to act and unwilling to go. The second night, Clarke packed her bags once more. This time she made it as far as the distant foothills before turning back around again.

She couldn’t leave without a goodbye.

: : : : : : : : : :

The night of the dance, Clarke decided to find him. Her hair was a shining sheet of gold, rippling over her shoulders, her legs bared under her formal dress, embroidered with seeds and stone beads. Strips of suede held her sandals up, accentuating the curves of her calves. Everyone was dressed in their best to celebrate the summer solstice. Mead and wine and wooden trenchers laden with food were passed through the crowd. Taking it all in, Clarke felt a profound sadness. Here, she had a place. She was a hunter. Her skills kept those she cared for alive in a tangible way. Little Anya would have furs to keep her warm through the bitter winter months because of Clarke’s talent.

Knowing the time to leave was nearing, Clarke paused now and then to chat with the other hunters that filled the area of grass where the dance was being held. A painful lump filled her throat, as she forced herself to smile at her newly-made friends. Mead and wine sweetened with honey refilled drinking horns as the party continued. There were bonfires set up at intervals - giving both heat and light and keeping away the worst of the biting bugs - and people sat around them laughing and talking, from the youngest children, being nursed in their mother’s arms, to the elders of the village, wrapped in shawls and telling stories.

Buzzing with alcohol, Clarke moved from group to group, hoping to catch sight of Bellamy. Aidan assured her he was still here, but she couldn’t seem to find him. Nearby, a group of singers with various instruments - drums and flutes and percussion - started up a rollicking jig and people rose to dance.

One of Haaken’s hunters, a young man named Yacob, leaned in, his voice low. “Don’t look now, but there’s a man over there watching you. Dark haired. He’s standing with the traders.”

Clarke glanced back at once. “Who?”

Her eyes met Bellamy’s. He dropped his gaze, turning his back to her.

“You’re not subtle, are you, Clarke?” Yacob laughed.

“His name’s Bellamy,” she murmured.

“You like him?” he teased.

“I haven’t talked to him in years.”

Bellamy’s eyes flickered up and then back down again at the sound of her voice. It was almost so fast that she wouldn’t have seen it, except that she’d been waiting. As she continued to watch, a bright blush began creeping up his neck and ears.

“Then what is it?”

“I-I knew him once.”

“How?”

“He fought in the war with the Mountain Men.” Clarke swallowed hard. “He’s the reason we won.”

Yacob’s expression changed. Clarke rarely spoke of the time before she’d joined the tribe. Though she and Yacob had hunted together, he knew very little of her past.

“Ah, well,” he said. “I didn’t realize.”

Clarke shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“Were you friends before the war?”

“We were… something.”

Yacob grinned, and stepped back. “Then you should go to him. He looks a bit irritated you’re talking with me.”

Clarke shook her head. _Why should Bellamy even care?_ “I doubt it, Yacob.”

“Ah, yes… there’s the look again. If you’re friends, you should go.”

Clarke looked back and this time she _knew_ she caught Bellamy scowling. Their eyes caught and held for a second before he looked down at the ground. She frowned, undecided.

“Go on,” Yacob whispered, nudging her forward. “You’re only young once, Clarke. And it’ll be a long time before the next Council.”

: : : : : : : : : :

Bellamy glanced up once again, but this time Clarke was gone. He scowled. He shouldn’t play with fire like this, but when she was watching him and she _knew_ he was watching _her_ , he couldn’t help but respond. It was like the steps of the dance they both knew had never been forgotten - one step together, then two apart - an unending tune. He frowned, trying to concentrate on the discussion of shipping routes and the use of horses to carry heavy loads of furs. It was no use. His attention was gone.

_Clarke’s here! She’s alive!_

A man named Reiden began describing the complex process of trading along the southern coast. He had a shipment of furs from the Highland People. He’d been tasked with taking the load down the coast to trade for dry goods and was trying to muster up enough men to go. Bellamy frowned as the man’s words slurred together.

_“Ai gaf gouthru klir. Gyon au ouder…”_

The fermented drinks that had been passed around were getting stronger and the complex flow of Trigedasleng was growing increasingly difficult for Bellamy to the follow. The warmth of intoxication and Clarke’s presence dragged his thoughts away. _She’s already talking to someone. I’m not going to do it. Not going to start something. Not going to-_ He looked back up just as the crowd parted.

Clarke was walking through the crowd towards him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Distant Music**

Haaken frowned as he watched Clarke - the newest of his Highland hunters - step toward the dark haired stranger. It wasn’t that he disapproved of Clarke enjoying herself at the celebrations; quite the opposite, in fact. He wanted to her meet someone, he wanted her to pledge herself, and to someday settle down to have a family. The Highland People needed it. With children to feed, and too few adults to hunt, it was a question of survival. Other tribes might struggle, but not like those in the mountains. The Woods Clan which stretched from Ton DC to the foothills could hunt year round, the Plains People used traps even in the coldest months, but the Highlanders were limited by the deep mountain snows which kept them in their caves for weeks at a time.

Losing a hunter this close to winter was not an option.

Haaken’s mouth twitched in irritation as the young man stared longingly back at Clarke. Barring Elba, there wasn’t a single Water Person who’d made the transition to the hard, mountaineering life. And even as a wise-woman, she’d had difficulty. Haaken scowled as the couple made eyes at one another across the crowd. If Haaken had to put his finger on it, he’d say that Clarke was already half in love with this man.

And that simply wouldn’t do.

With a grunt, the Chieftain of the Highland People stood from the ground, searching out the eyes of his wife. She sat at another campfire beside a woman who was heavy with child, counting something out on the woman’s fingers. She glanced up as Haaken approached.

“You never stop working do you?” he asked with a grin.

She shrugged. “No, probably not, but if I can ease her birthing, then I need to talk to her now. Summer solstice or not.” Her face flickered for a moment catching sight of his dark expression and growing concerned in return. “What’s happened, Haaken? Is Anya all right?”

“She’s fine.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing _wrong_ exactly, but I need some advice.”

He offered his wife his arm, and led her back toward the revellers. He helped her settle to the ground, then held out his cloak and tucked it around her.

“Are you going to tell me what it is?” she asked. “Or was this a trick to lure me to your side.”

“An added bonus, but no. There’s more.” He nodded to the crowd where Bellamy and Clarke stood a stone’s throw away from each other, their eyes following one another with surreptitious glances. “I want you to look at Clarke and tell me what you see.”

“Clarke? Your new hunter?”

“Yes. She’s over there.”

Elba turned to watch. In seconds, her brows rose toward her hairline. “That man she’s watching,” she said. “Who is he?”

Haaken grimaced. “I think he’s one of the Water People.”

“And…?”

“And I’ll not be losing one of my best hunters to the whim of one night’s revelry.”

“Husband,” Elba warned. “What _exactly_ are you intending to do to the poor boy?”

Haaken shrugged. “Nothing much. Just keep him busy, is all.”

: : : : : : : : : :

One minute she was heading toward Bellamy, the next he’d spun on his heel and stalked away.

Clarke headed into the mass of people, heart pounding. Why had he turned away from her? She scanned the crowd for his too-familiar form, the wide shoulders and tall frame. All of it reminded her of before. Most days Clarke hated that, but tonight her body was warm with alcohol and grief, and she _wanted_ to remember. She had just reached the banks of the river - avoiding several couples who’d gone sight-seeing in the dark - when she caught sight of his silhouette in the distance.

He stood alone in an empty expanse of grassland that rose and fell around him in ripples, the trees at his back. Her breath caught. Though the tents were the Council of the Six Tribes, rather than Camp Jaha, the tableau looked almost exactly the way it had the day she’d walked away from him. Bellamy stared out across the distant prairies to the dark shadow of the mountains beyond, his shoulders slumped forward. Grief rolled off of him in waves.

Picking her way forward in silence, Clarke made her way to his side. She paused a few steps away, nervous now that she’d arrived. What would she say? What would he? Turning to look toward the other horizon, Bellamy startled, his eyes jerking up to hers.

“Clarke.” His voice was raw.

“You disappeared on me.”

Bellamy gave a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. Her eyebrows pulled together in concern.

“What?”

“I’d never do that to you.”

She smiled sadly. “No,” she said after a moment. “I suppose that’s more what I do, isn’t it?”

Bellamy laughed without mirth.

“It’s good to see you again,” she added. “I missed you, Bellamy.”

“Did you?”

Clarke’s chest constricted in pain. She took a step closer, catching details she’d missed in the time apart: the shape of his nose and line of his jaw. “Of course I did,” she said. “I missed you terribly.”

She reached out to touch his arm.

“Don’t,” Bellamy whispered. Pain engraved the lines of his young face. She wanted to touch him, but didn’t dare. Once, years before, she’d hugged him without permission, but tonight she didn’t dare.

“It’s been a long time,” she said as she dropped her hand back to her side.

Bellamy let out a slow breath. “Yes. It really has.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Surviving.”

Clarke’s throat ached, but she forced her words to stay light. “Glad to hear it.” She nodded to the distant campfires. “Aiden tells me travelled with the Water-”

“Why didn’t you come back?!”

“Wh-what?”

“When you walked away from Camp Jaha, everyone expected you to come back in a day or two. We all thought you’d change your mind and come home.”

Clarke opened her mouth and closed it again. How could she explain this?

“People waited for you, Clarke. Me, Octavia… your mother. How could you do that to her? To us?!”

“Bellamy, please. I can expl-”

“I looked for you, Clarke. Everyone said you’d come back, but I looked! I tried to bring you back before winter. I tried-” His voice broke. “I tried…”

Clarke rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I-I’m sorry. I just couldn’t be there. Not after Mount Weather. Not after everything I’d done to-”

“I can’t listen to this! It’s too late.”

He turned away from her but Clarke reached out, catching hold of his arm. It was the first time she’d touched him since the day she’d left, and her fingers ached with the feel of him.

“Let me go,” he growled.

“Why?”

“Because it’s too hard. It hurts too much. Finding you here - fine after all this time.” He tried to pull away, but her fingers tightened. “Jesus, Clarke. Do you know losing you did to the rest of us? It just about destroyed Abby to lose you.”

His face swam in her unshed tears. “Please, Bellamy. Let me explain.”

“I can’t deal with this right now. I thought I’d be happy if I found you, but now…” He tugged from her grip. “I’m glad you’re alive. I am. But I’ve got to go.”

“Stay, please.”

Clarke stepped in front of him and placed her hands on his shoulders. It wasn’t the same as a hug, but it was close. Bellamy’s eyes dropped to her face.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” she said fiercely. “We can do this together. Right? Wasn’t that the deal? You and me.” His breath hitched, but as far as Clarke could tell, she was having no effect on him whatsoever. If anything he looked more uncomfortable than before. “When we came back from Mount Weather that’s what you said to me Bellamy.”

“And what happens when you run off again, huh?” he asked. “How am I supposed to handle that?” Clarke flinched, remembering the packed bags in the tent, the horse ready and waiting to leave.

“I-I wouldn’t do that.”

He laughed angrily.

“I wouldn’t,” she insisted. “I give you my word.”

His hands rose with her words, sliding around her waist. She could see him warring with something, his whole body strung taut like a bow the second before release. And somehow, Clarke knew _exactly_ what would push him over.

“You told me you forgave me once. So tell me, Bellamy. Did you really mean that or not?”

Before her words had ended, he pulled her into his arms. His mouth slanted across hers. One hand slid into her hair; the other moved across her back, holding tight. Clarke had been kissed by other men, but never like this. Bellamy’s mouth was harsh and demanding, bruising her lips. She gasped, opening her mouth to him. The onslaught of sensations left her shaking. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding tight while the kiss dragged on. The low burning fires of wants and needs exploding into an inferno which threatened to consume them both.

_Why did I ever leave?_

She made a mewling sound deep in her throat, and Bellamy moved his mouth to her neck nipping and suckling his way down. His hands moved over fabric of her dress, thumbing circles against the curve of her breast, pebbling her nipples despite the suede in between. She couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t keep up with the sudden eruption of yearning which made her desperate to find out what the feel of his hands against her bare skin would do. She wanted him more than anything she’d ever longed for before. Needed him with her.

His mouth had just moved back up to her lips when a noise alerted them both to someone’s encroaching presence.

“Clarke!” a child’s voice called from the shadows. “Is that you?”

Clarke stumbled back away from Bellamy, nearly falling in the long grass. He reached out and caught her by the arm, steadying her.

“Yes, Anya. I’m here.” Her voice sounded abnormally loud in the silence.

“ _Nontu_ ’s looking for you. You gotta come now!”

Bellamy let go of her arm, putting two steps between them, so they stood slightly apart. From the distant hill, a child’s figure appeared. Clarke took a shaky breath, her fingers rising up to brush her swollen lips. This kiss had been different than she’d expected. There’d been _more_ there than give and take, desire and release. She needed a few minutes to think of what it all meant, but Anya was already here.

“I have to go,” Clarke whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Bellamy nodded. “I’ll see you again?” he asked.

Clarke pulled him into a tight hug, her fingers trembling where they pressed against his shoulders.

“Absolutely.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Creatures of the Night**

At the edge of the fire, another messenger came with the same message: Haaken had noticed Clarke’s absence, and wasn’t happy about it.

“Haakenis out looking for you right now,” Yacob repeated.

Clarke’s hands tightened around Anya’s hand. “What for?”

Yacob smirked. “I’m not sure, but I’m guessing he’s not impressed with your boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend!” Anya chimed.

“Not a boyfriend, Anya. Just a friend.” Clarke leaned into Yacob, dropping her words so the little girl didn’t hear. “Why would Haaken care who I spend time with?”

He shrugged. “No idea. Could be because he’s from the Sky People.”

“But so am I!”

“Clarke,” Anya whined. “You’re hurting my hand.”

“Sorry, Anya” Clarke gasped, letting go of the child’s fingers.

“You should find Elba, Clarke. She’s always good at handling the _heda’_ s temper.” Yacob smirked. “And he did _not_ look happy when he headed off to find you.”

: : : : : : : : : :

Elba pushed through the knots of people next to the now-dwindling campfire, searching for Clarke. She hoped she’d find the young woman before her husband did. He was about as subtle as a battle axe, and this situation needed finessing.

Relief flooded Elba’s body as she caught sight of the young woman at the edge of the trees, Anya next to her. The young man, whoever he was, was nowhere to be seen. She strode forward, hands outstretched.

“Oh thank the spirit world, child,” she said as she reached the treeline. “You’re here, Anya.” Elba’s hand settled on her daughter’s shoulder, squeezing tightly for a moment, then letting go. “You had me worried, little one.”

“Everything okay, _Nomon_?” Anya asked.

“Everything’s fine. I’m so glad you were with Clarke. No one seemed to know what happened to you.”

The little girl frowned. “But _Nontu_ asked me to-”

“And how are you, Clarke?” Elba said, drowning out her daughter’s words. “Are you all right? You look a bit peaked.”

“Yacob told me Haaken was looking for me.”

Elba nodded. “He was.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I’ve no idea,” Elba lied. “But I’m guessing it’s to do with the Warrior Clan.”

Clarke blinked. “What about them?”

“There’s talk that the Warrior Clan is planning more attacks this fall.” Elba glanced over her shoulder. That part, at least, was true and lies were always more effective when laced with the truth. “I’m certain Haaken was just worried when he heard you’d disappeared from the dance. He wanted to talk to his hunters and you were nowhere to be found.”

“I didn’t mean to worry everyone. I… I just saw someone I knew.” Clarke nodded to the distant tents. “A friend.”

Elba nodded. “I wasn’t worried about you as much as this _goufa_.” She ruffled her hands through Anya’s hair and clucked her tongue. “I swear, she’s more work than all four of my boys combined.”

Clarke smiled as Anya caught her hand. “I found Clarke like _Nontu_ asked me too,” she announced. “She was with the black-haired man who-”

Elba shushed her daughter and motioned for the two of them to follow.

“Did Haaken say why he wanted to talk to the hunters?”

“Who knows what Haaken wants,” Elba said with a forced laugh. “Men, you know. Always on about their own things.” Clarke chuckled at the older woman’s words. “I’m sure it’s to do with trade, and keeping the routes open, if the Warrior Clan attacks after the Council truce ends.”

Clarke nodded. “That makes sense.”

“Thank you for bringing Anya back to camp. She really _shouldn’t_ be out wandering this time of night. It’s late, and we should head back to the tents.” Elba fell into step at Clarke’s side, hurrying her away. “The Warrior Clan isn’t to be trifled with.”

“Of course,” Clarke muttered.

Elba felt a twinge of remorse as the young woman glanced once more over her shoulder. “Did you have somewhere else you needed to be, Clarke?”

She looked sheepishly back at Elba. “No. Not right now. It’s… fine. I’ll deal with it later.”

“Good. Then maybe you could help me get this _yongon_ into bed before sunrise.”

Anya caught hold of Clarke’s other hand. “Yes, Clarke! Come back to the tents with us!”

“Well I…”

“Thank you, Clarke,” Elba said as she caught hold of Clarke’s elbow and directed her away from the fires. “I don’t know what I’d do without your help.”

Elba forced her guilt down as they reached the tents of the Highland People. Sometimes compromises had to be made, and much as she didn’t like meddling, Haaken was right. Clarke was a Highlander and winter was on its way. They needed her more than the young man did.

: : : : : : : : : :

Downcast and angry, Bellamy wandered through the teeming throng of people near the campfires, a new cup of mead in hand. Clarke and the little girl had disappeared into the Solstice crowds, leaving him alone. He was caught between a desperate need to leave Clarke behind and an even _more_ primal need to stay.

He couldn’t think through the mess of his emotions. He felt trapped by her brightness and his belated anger, fading with every step he took. Her words returned to him: _“You told me you forgave me once. So tell me, Bellamy. Did you mean that or not?”_ Bellamy stumbled as the answer came to him. _He’d forgive her anything._

“There you are!” a man’s voice called out, pushing through his thoughts. “Was wondering what happened to you?”

He glanced up to see Aiden standing near a group of young men. They were drawing shapes in the dirt; a rough map of the basin that formed the extent of the world that the Tribes of Man travelled.

“Bellamy here knows the coast and the plains better than anyone I know,” Aiden said, gesturing for him to sit. “It’s like he has the whole thing drawn in his head. C’mon, Bellamy,” he said grinning, “we’ve been fighting with this for ages. Help us out here.”

Bellamy smiled, dropping to a crouch and looking over the rudimentary map. He knew the area because he’d seen the maps inside Mount Weather. He frowned as he dredged up an image of the forested range to the north with its low, treed mountains, the swamps to the south, the ocean to the east, and the Great Plains to the west that led to the towering highland peaks. He’d mapped it once before, in the days when he’d been looking for Clarke, and had travelled most of it in the years that followed.

“We’re trying to get a sense of the area before Reiden and the others leave,” Aiden said, pointing out the forest near Ton DC and the ragged shape of the eastern seaboard, “but if you could give us the places you remember from your travels, it’d help.”

Lifting a stick, Bellamy added details in the soft soil. He hinted at the three interconnected lakes in the far north and the passes that could be used to traverse the western ranges to reach the western sea. Aiden chattered while he worked.

“Bellamy’s got a great sense of direction. Can find his way using only the sky as his guide…” Bellamy smiled absently at the praise, the map growing in the dirt. “…We got turned around on the way to the Council,” Aiden began, launching into a story, “Spent three days going in circles until Bellamy here - a stranger, you mind - came forward to help. He stayed up that night and made us a chart from the stars. Had us on our way in no time…”

As Aiden talked, Bellamy added words to the drawing. They were English characters, and would be meaningless in Trigedasleng, but it gave him something to do. He labelled the different tribes, adding in the Tribal marking for their names, and then their traditional boundaries. His hand hovered over the foothills in the east, ready to add his final notation: Camp Jaha, a day’s walk from Ton DC, the place Clarke had left them all behind.

With a sigh, he dropped the stick in the dirt, leaving the spot unmarked. He glanced up to see Reiden, Aiden’s friend, watching him.

“That’s quite a skill with map-making, friend.” He pointed down to the coast, tracing a path away from the Warrior Clan and down beyond to the uncharted regions of the south. “This here is the shipping route I intend to follow. There are people there - different tribes - who’ll pay highly for Highland furs and leather. Perhaps you should think about coming. A trip like this could make a man’s fortune.”

Aiden chuckled, interrupting before Bellamy could answer.

“Or it could kill him. You’re not telling him the whole story, Reiden,” he said with a smirk. “You’ve forgotten to mention the fighting that goes on along the border. There are just as many dangers there as opportunities. It’s a risky venture, crossing their lands.”

Reiden had just started to argue when someone stepped in front of the firelight, drawing their attention. All of the men glanced up, and Reiden stood to his feet, embracing the man who’d arrived.

“ _Nontu!_ Welcome!”

It was Haaken noch Laird, the chieftain of the Highland People.

Haaken strode forward, his face dark and angry. “Bellamy,” he growled, “I’d like a word with you… Alone.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: The Ultimatum**

Elba stood in the dimly lit tent, waiting while her husband and Bellamy spoke. The room - spacious by the standards of the tribes - was lit by tallow candles held in braziers. Piles of furs covered a travelling cot on one side of the room, a low table displaying a variety of leatherware and pots filled the other. It was a tent of tremendous wealth, meant to infer the power of the position, and Elba wondered if this young man, raised in the floating palace of the _Skaikru_ , was suitably awed. Elba wasn’t sure exactly how things had become so complicated tonight, but she felt a tremendous amount of guilt at her own part in it. Bellamy seemed like a nice enough young man, and seeing him now, eyes downcast - being dressed down by Haaken noch Laird in his full warrior regalia - left a bad taste in her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy muttered, ashen-faced. “I never knew.”

Haaken cleared his throat, sounding calmer than he had minutes earlier. “Well now you do,” he grumbled, “and I expect you to behave appropriately with Clarke from now on. She is fostered to my tribe, after all. Betrothed to Yacob, one of my hunters.”

Haaken glanced over at his wife as if biding her to hold her tongue.

“I never knew Clarke was intended to one of your men,” Bellamy said earnestly. “If I’d I never would’ve-” His words fumbled to a stop. “I’ll stay away from her. You have my word.” Again the guilt rose in Elba’s chest. “I-I’ll leave the Council of the Six Tribes.”

“It’s nothing formal at this point,” Haaken muttered, his hand coming to rest comfortingly on Bellamy’s shoulder. “And there’s no reason you should leave. After all,” he added, “nothing happened. So spend the rest of the time here at the Council, and then move on when the tribes do.”

“No,” Bellamy said grimly. “I’d been thinking about going south already.”

“You were?” Haaken asked in feigned innocence.

Elba’s fists tightened until her fingernails pressed half-c’s into her hands. Their elder son, Reiden, was one of the tradesmen leaving. Bellamy’s invitation was no accident.

Bellamy nodded, his eyes on the tallow candles flickering at the side. He looked older, Elba thought, than he had minutes before.

“The traders need a map-maker. I’d been meaning to go anyhow.” His voice disappeared, and he stood silently for a few seconds. Elba frowned, wishing she’d never agreed to go along with her husband’s plan. Clarke was going to be furious if she discovered the lie that they’d fed to Bellamy. She and Yacob were friends, nothing more.

“Thank you for understanding,” Haaken said, clapping Bellamy on the shoulder. “I’m glad we had this talk, man to man.”

“Of course.”

“I’m sure that the trip south will be fortuitous for everyone involved. And who knows? You might find you enjoy the warmer weather.”

Elba felt her heart grow cold as the two men shook hands and Bellamy stumbled back into the night. The spirit world would surely punish Haaken for manipulating fate to do his bidding.

: : : : : : : : : :

Carl Emerson sat at the edge of the small plot of land that he and Brett Culvert - one of the few people to survive the attack on Mount Weather - had tilled, watching the sun rise. Behind him, the flap on their small hut moved, and Brett struggled outside, squinting into the growing light.

“You’re up early,” Brett said.

“Mmph,” Carl grunted. In the distance, sunshine spread like a golden haze across the fields.

“You all right?”

“Had a dream last night. It has me thinking this morning.”

“Ah, I see.”

With each passing month, the two men grew weaker. The bone marrow transplant hadn’t been as effective as Dr. Tsing had hoped. If Dante had been alive, he would have told them this slow death was god’s punishment for what they’d done. Carl wondered if he was right.

Brett sat down beside Carl, his lone companion; the two of them, side by side, facing the rising sun. “Was it another dream about Clarke Griffin?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Thought it might’ve been.”

If Carl dreamed, it was always about her. As the person who’d brought an end to the reign of Mount Weather, her memory tortured Carl like no other. It had been her rebellion that had killed Carl’s family, her determination to free her friends which had destroyed his entire society. Carl’s hatred of Clarke had grown until it was twined with his own existence like fibres in a rope, and as Carl’s body faded, his need for retribution grew. The two men had followed Clarke’s path like a beacon over the last years. They’d never found her.

“Was this the dream about the quarantine room?” Brett asked.

That time when Clarke had been trapped in Mount Weather had a particularly golden quality in Carl’s memories. If they’d killed her then, they’d all be living in Mount Weather rather than trying to survive this god-forsaken wasteland. They’d be kings over the Tribes of Man, feared by all.

“No,” Carl sighed, “it wasn’t Mount Weather at all. It was somewhere else. The City of Light, maybe. Not sure.”

“And…?”

“In my dream, I finally caught her. I killed her. Justice was served.”

Brett tipped his head. “Well, that must’ve been… nice.”

Carl smiled, but it was devoid of warmth. “Oh, it was.” The sun finally broke free of the horizon, rising into the summer sky.

Brett grimaced into the light and struggled to stand. “Well, I think I’ll get-”

“I want to start looking for her again,” Carl said. “I want Clarke Griffin dead.”

: : : : : : : : : :

Elba sat across from her husband, her hands on her lap. Haaken had finally calmed enough to sit down, but she could tell he wasn’t happy. The discussion with Bellamy hadn’t been the salve he’d expected. He muttered to himself, face flushed.

“..the best thing to do in the situation. We can’t lose Clarke - not at this time of year. We’ll starve without hunters! No choice really. Did what I had to do.”

Elba sighed, waiting out his temper. When he finally glanced over at her, she shook her head sadly. “If you’re so sure it’s the right thing, why is it bothering you so much?”

“It’s not bothering me!” he bellowed. “I did what I had to do!”

“Then why are you yelling at _me_ about it?”

“Because I can SEE you don’t agree with me! So out with it!”

Elba put a hand to her temple. She needed some willow-bark tea for the headache pulsing behind her eyes. “Husband, I share your concern for the tribe,” she said tiredly. “But Clarke’s not Anya. She’s a woman grown. What do you think she’ll say if she finds out what you did?”

“She’ll understand,” he growled, but he didn’t hold her eyes as he said it.

Elba smirked. He looked the way their boys used to when she’d catch them doing things they shouldn’t have been doing.

“She’s a hunter now,” Haaken added. “She knows that the tribe comes first.”

“Are you sure she won’t run off and follow him? The Council of the Six Tribes is worse than a market for gossips. It’s sure to reach her ears at some point.”

“She’ll stay if I order her to!”

“Just like Dex obeyed his chief when they told him to leave his chosen behind? Just like you obeyed your family when you married me against their wishes?”

There was a long pause before Haaken answered. “That is _not_ the same and you know it.”

She chuckled. “Mmm… you think not? I saw how Clarke was looking at that young man. It reminded me of a certain Chief in his prime, looking to find his way into the Water People’s camp past midnight.”

Haaken scowled, his eyes dropping down to the furs laid out on the grass floor.

“I am going to geld Bellamy Blake if he comes near Clarke again-”

“You will do _no such thing_!” Elba snapped. “If he believed you about her betrothal to Yacob, then he’ll leave. Aiden assures me that Bellamy is honourable above all else. And Reiden and the others are heading off at first light.”

“But he could still come back.”

“Oh husband,” she sighed. “You, as much as I, know such travels can have their own consequences…”


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Bitter Memories**

The Council of the Six Tribes ended the day after Solstice. Celebrations over, the tribes were eager to return home and being preparations for winter’s arrival. Trade amongst the different peoples had been completed. Haaken’s Highland People now had twelve new horses ready to train for the mountain passes while the Horse People had plenty of heavy bear skins and dried pemmican to keep them warm and fed through the following winter. Marriages had been arranged between the clans. Tribesmen were heading to their new homes. The politics and legislative dealings between clans had already occurred and barring the occasional visitor, travelling to spread news or sell goods, most people wouldn’t see anyone beyond their own village for many months.

Bellamy woke to Reiden’s whispered: “Hurry! It’s nearly dawn,” already in a dark mood. The caravan had been packed the day before and in minutes, Bellamy and the others were out in the dark, climbing into the saddles.

“Ready?” Reiden asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Bellamy sighed, remembering Haaken’s warning.

Minutes later, they were heading across the fields that surrounded the sleeping camp. Bellamy knew the risks to this journey. They’d kept him awake half the night, and as the sun peaking over the horizon, they were forefront in his mind.

The arduous journey would take between three or four months, depending on the harshness of the weather. All of the men who’d volunteered knew the risks. Unlike Bellamy, many of them had wives and families relying on their return. The men hoped to get past the Warrior Clan’s territory before the Council truce was officially ended, but that meant a quick crossing of the Great Plains. There were places where the rivers that crossed the land were deep and dangerous and could submerge a horse with a single misstep. In his travels, Bellamy had discovered many of these crossings, and he’d racked his memories for details as he worked out Reiden’s route.

As the sun cast long shadows out beside the caravan, Bellamy took one last look back. His heart sank. He hadn’t even stopped to say goodbye to Clarke.

He knew if he had, he never would’ve had the strength to leave.

: : : : : : : : : :

In the morning Clarke went in search of Bellamy, needing to explain why she’d left the night before. But his tent was gone, the area nothing more than a circle of crushed grass. Glancing around, she caught sight of Aiden rolling up his own deer-hide tent.

“Aiden,” she called, “you seen Bellamy around this morning? I wanted to ask him something.”

“Too late, Clarke,” he said, “Bellamy decided to join Reiden and the traders. They left at dawn.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 2: The Way of the Warrior** **  
**

**Chapter 9: Marked with Blood**

Clarke was halfway to the river when she first sensed she was being tracked. She couldn’t say what had tipped her off exactly, but there was definitely someone watching. The hair on the back of her neck crawled.

All morning she had been following the path of beaten grass along the wide spread of the valley where the caravan had passed hours earlier. She’d left the camp with nothing but a water-skin and her bow and arrow, hatching an impulsive plan to catch up to the traders before they crossed the plains. Haaken’s group had pack horses, of course, and they were waiting patiently to be laden with tents and supplies, but she hadn’t asked for one to ride. _Couldn’t ask, obviously!_ But with her legs starting to pulse in time to her strides, she wondered if she wouldn’t have been better off stealing a hunting steed to catch up to the caravan.

She needed a break - her lungs were burning - but she refused to slow. A caravan of heavily-packed horses would be slower than a woman trained at tracking at a dead run, and she was desperate to catch up before they crossed the plains. She couldn’t allow Bellamy to go without taking a moment to talk to him. The sun rose toward the centre of the sky, heat beating down on her head as she ran.

_Slow down, Bellamy!_

There was something between the two of them. That seemed the only semi-rational explanation she could pin it on. Love was a word Clarke rarely used, and she was terrified to use it now. Her calves had just begun to cramp when she saw the barely-visibly plume of dust at the horizon. She pushed herself faster, heart thudding loudly in her ears, lips cracked and dry. The horses of the caravan were almost at the mouth of the river; if she made it to them before they crossed, she’d be able to explain. Again her thoughts flew out to Bellamy.

_Wait for me, please!_

All she knew was that it was desperately important she see him one last time. Frustrated and close to tears, Clarke pushed harder, glancing over her shoulder as the feeling she was being followed surged. She couldn’t stop to deal with it… not yet.

She had just reached the first, narrow stream leading toward the larger river in the distance when the person behind her came into view. She turned around and waited with a white-fletched arrow strung taut in her bow. The Council truce still held, but the Warrior Clan would be crossing the plains today too. It was a fool’s errand to be alone.

For the first time, fear rose in Clarke’s chest.

“Declare yourself stranger!” she bellowed, her words echoing across the empty plains.

Her legs ticked with the pulsing beat of exhaustion, leaving her wobbly. A head appeared at the crest of the hill, bouncing in time to a horse’s gallop. Clarke aimed at the centre of the figure’s chest, releasing her breath so that her arrow would fly straight and true.

In the distance, the horse and rider came over the next rise. The dappled mount was galloping hard and as it approached, the rider sat up, exposing a dark head of curls and brown, worried eyes.

“Damnit, Aiden!” Clarke snapped, dropping the bow and putting the arrow back in the quiver. “You scared the hell out of me!”

Aiden slowed his horse to a trot, sliding off the its lathered back before dropping the reins and coming to stand next to her.

“I heard from Anya,” he panted, “that you’d taken off to find Bellamy. You’ve got to come back, Clarke.” He stopped, breathing hard and fighting for words. “Haaken’s already calling his men to find you!”

Aiden’s mount dropped its head and began grazing.

“I’m not letting Bellamy go without saying goodbye,” Clarke said. She moved back toward the scrubby line of willow bushes that lined the edge of the narrow stream, putting a few steps between them. “I don’t care!”

“Clarke, just listen-”

Her eyes narrowed. “This is none of Haaken’s business!”

“You’ve got to come back. The Warrior Clan’s on the-”

Aiden’s words were cut off as an arrow embedded deep in his throat.

: : : : : : : : : :

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sample of The 100: Blood Bound, not the entire work. (But Part 1 works on its own as a complete story.) Yes, the rest is written. No, I can't post it all here. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading! LL :)


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